


Pressure Valve (Five Moments of Intimacy)

by Triss_Hawkeye



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Confessions, Dog Walking, FMI, FMNI, Five Moments of Intimacy, Forehead Kisses, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hugging, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Intimacy, Manipulation, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Processing Trauma, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-16 19:33:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14817552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Triss_Hawkeye/pseuds/Triss_Hawkeye
Summary: Five short fics exploring different kinds of non-sexual intimacy, following a format proposed byZaniida.





	1. Physical Intimacy: Finch & Root

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zaniida](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaniida/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Five Moments of Intimacy: A Demonstration of Form](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14751425) by [Zaniida](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaniida/pseuds/Zaniida). 



> A gift for Zaniida, who proposed a fic format exploring and celebrating non-sexual intimacy and honestly, I could not be more of a fan. You can read the break-down of the format [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14751425/chapters/34107503).
> 
> All these fics share a loose theme of intimacy as pressure relief, hence the title. A mix of mutual, relational intimacy, and intimacy that serves a purpose for someone (not that these are necessarily mutually exclusive, but there’s a range of different motivations for seeking intimacy with someone else). A couple could be considered slightly coercive - I've tagged for manipulation, but tread carefully if that's a problem for you. For some of them, incidents left mostly undescribed form the backdrop for the scene - they’ve been left deliberately vague, for the reader to fill in how they like!

A photo flickered up on the screen. Their latest number, hugging his daughter, taken approximately four years ago at her graduation. Harold blinked at the screen. “Why that one?” he murmured, half to the Machine and half to himself. His musing was cut short by the echo of heels entering the subway station. He twisted himself around to look at Root as she walked in. 

“Good evening Miss Groves, I-”

“Evening, Harold,” she replied with some force, an attempt at a smile not quite masking her gritted teeth. Her voice was strained and fists clenched as she stalked towards her bedroom in the subway and entered it with the bearing of someone who would have slammed the door behind her, were there one to slam.

“Oh dear,” Harold whispered to himself. He got up and hovered by the gauzy purple curtains that demarcated her territory. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Root shook her head from where she sat on her bed, knees under her chin. 

“I see.” Harold’s first instinct would be to leave her be, and reappear with something nice to eat a little later. However as cryptically as the Machine could sometimes communicate, Harold was sometimes capable of picking up a hint. He cleared his throat and stepped into the room, lowering himself gently onto the bed next to her.

“You don’t have to talk,” he said, stretching an arm tentatively around her shoulders. “But, if you want…”

Root groaned and rolled her eyes, but she twisted around and buried her head into his chest anyway. Harold closed his grip around her shoulders and cradled the back of her head with his other hand, slowly stroking her hair. After a moment, Root wrapped her own arms around his torso in return with a heavy sigh.

“The two of you always manage to work it out,” he told her softly. “You’ll do it again.”

He felt a puff of heat across his ribs as Root let out an exasperated growl. “She put you up to this, didn’t she?” The words sputtered as bursts of warmth over his heart and he held her just a little closer. 

“While I will confess to having received... a nudge,” he murmured into the top of her head. “I can assure you that I’m here because _I_ very much care about your well-being, Miss Groves.” 

Root must have been satisfied with that response, because aside from adjusting her legs a little for comfort, she stayed there, their breathing synchronising and bodies relaxing into each other. Eventually Root sighed again, her anger softened into weary resignation. “She’s always right, you know. And sometimes it makes me so mad, but she’s still always right.”

Harold gave a wry smile. “I can sympathise.”

“Voice of experience, huh?” Root pulled herself back up and draped her arms loosely around his neck. “Thanks, roomie.”

He gave her an indulgent smile. “How about I go up to Chinatown and get us some noodles?”

A wide grin lit up her face, and she leaned in to plant a kiss on his forehead. “You’re the best, Harry.”


	2. Emotional Intimacy: Elias & Fusco

“Morning, sunshine.”

Elias cracked open an eyelid to see Detective Fusco galumphing down the stairs with a bulging shopping bag in each hand. 

“Glasses called in a favour, something to do with finals, so you got me for the grocery run,” he grumbled, striding into the safe house apartment’s kitchen and shoving things unceremoniously into cupboards. Elias sighed and sat up in the hospital bed, suppressing a groan at the ache still clawing through his mending body. He felt utterly wretched, and needed to relieve himself, but such indignity as hobbling to the bathroom could wait until the detective left.

“Oi, Godfather,” Fusco stuck his head back into the living area. “You up and about yet? Or do I hafta make you breakfast as well?”

“No need, detective,” Elias replied, voice level and genial. “I’m mobile enough to cook for myself, thank you. I am grateful though - for this, and for the risk you took in saving my life.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Fusco shot back dismissively, returning to shuffling things around in the cupboards. Elias pursed his lips. Fusco’s past was complicated and his present more so. Elias didn’t have a handle on where he stood yet, and thus what there was to work with. Perhaps even Fusco himself wasn’t sure. That needed to change. The man needed to be invested, one way or the other.

“There was a sale on,” the detective’s chatter continued. “Hope you like red onions - never used ‘em myself, but Carter swore by ‘em, so.”

Elias wasn’t in the mood for small talk, but he took the in that presented itself. “Oh, Carter.” He gave a rueful smile as Fusco wandered back through, hands in his pockets. “I don’t think she ever came close to liking me. But I do miss her.”

The detective gave him a dubious look, then dropped his eyes to the ground with a nod. “Yeah. Me too. I just… wish she’d been able to let me help her more, you know?”

The words rang true and triggered an unexpected pang of sorrow. “We all do. Well. She wouldn’t have been Carter if she’d taken me up on the kind of help I offered her. Still.” He nested his fingers on top of the sheets, considering what to offer up. “I think Anthony had a thing for her, you know.”

Fusco scoffed. “What, Scarface?” The odd fondness Elias was feeling must have showed on his face, because Fusco picked it up and his derision softened into sympathetic amusement. “Yeah, well. Wouldn’t blame him.”

“It’s hard to lose a partner.” Elias’ voice cracked without him having to act it. His vengeance finally complete, it was only now that he felt like he could grieve, and he hadn’t been certain that he would get this far in the first place. Now the enormity of spending whatever years remained of his life without Anthony at his side settled on him like a smothering blanket. It threatened to make his breath shake as he inhaled, and he let it, just for a moment. 

Fusco watched him, the edges of his own mouth twitching down. “Yeah,” he said eventually, his voice thick. “Carter made me a better person. There’s no replacing her - Wonderboy tries but he’s a terrible cop. In the end though, there were plenty of us needed to work through losing her. Important thing was, I wasn’t alone. Neither are you.” He reached out and gave Elias’ leg a friendly slap. “Like it or not, you’re gonna have all of us hovering over you for the next little while.”

Elias managed a soft laugh. “It’s always house arrest somewhere, with you lot.” He sighed, and met Fusco’s eyes again. “Thank you. Really.”

This time Fusco caught it, and nodded. “Yeah. Be seeing you, Brando.”

A connection made, that would do. “Take care, detective.”

Oddly enough, he felt significantly less wretched after Fusco left, like something black and poisonous had drained out of his system. All that was left were the physical trials of the world. With a groan, he hauled himself out of bed and staggered in the direction of the bathroom.


	3. Experiential Intimacy: Reese & Shaw

There was quiet in the car, a heavy quiet, driving back towards the city.

It wasn’t often their numbers took them upstate, but this one had. Usually the trees and fields passing by through the car windows would be a welcome change from the towering mass of the city. But then it wasn’t often their numbers were this unsettling. Sure, there’d sometimes be anger, or revulsion. The numbers came so fast, he just had to bounce from one to the next and not dwell on them. This one, though, threatened to linger.

John glanced over at Shaw, who was drumming her fingers on the steering wheel and looking ahead with a neutral expression. Neutral for her, at least, which admittedly often bordered on the rageful, but it was still hard to tell what was going through her head. She didn’t acknowledge his turning to look at her, so he looked forward again. Though the windscreen was clear, the car felt fogged up somehow, like the air was thick with something rotten. They were still a long few hours out.

“Hey,” he said spontaneously, at an idea half-formed popping into his head. No response. “Shaw? Stop the car.”

Shaw looked over then, incredulous. “What?”

“Find somewhere where we can pull in. Let’s take Bear for a walk.”

Bear, who had been doing a good impression of sleeping on the back seat, pricked his ears and sat up, panting loudly and happily in anticipation. 

“Now you’ve done it,” Shaw said, but she was smiling. 

At the side of the road they found a small beaten trail leading into a clump of pine trees. Bear trotted ahead as the two of them wandered along, unhurried, silent save for deep breaths of the sharp-scented air. Already John’s head felt clearer. Beside him, Shaw seemed to visibly relax, though neither of them dropped the habitual awareness of their surroundings.

The path ahead of them rose to a slight hump. Bear reached it ahead of them, then bounded out of sight. As they crested the hill after the dog, they saw the trail drop away ahead of them and the trees peter out into a small clearing, sunlight filtering down onto long grass in which Bear was doing something that looked suspiciously like frolicking.

He’d never considered himself that much of a nature lover, but there were some sights that just made you feel better. Beside him, Shaw made a disgusted noise. “...no business looking this fucking idyllic,” she muttered. 

John wheezed, but Shaw was already gone, charging down the slope towards Bear who tackled her delightedly, sending woman and dog rolling gleefully into the grass. Shaw wrapped her arms around him and ruffled his fur. She was laughing, and John realised that he’d never heard more than a dry chuckle out of her before. He felt a wild grin stretch across his face as he caught up and offered her a hand off the floor. She looked up at him with an exasperated expression that seemed to ask him what the hell he thought he was grinning at, but she reached up and took his hand - before rolling back and tossing him to the ground.

Instinct had him halfway to his feet within a moment, but Bear met him head on and John admitted defeat, throwing out his arms as the dog knocked him back to the floor. Bear stood on his chest and enthusiastically licked his face.

“You got me, Bear,” he groaned, still grinning. “You got me.”

Shaw leaned over him. “You’ve messed up your suit. Finch is going to be pissed.”

“Grass stains and pawprints make a nice change from the usual shade.”

Shaw smirked and hauled Bear off him.

After chivvying the dog back into the car, Shaw leant her arms on the roof for a moment. John paused in opening the passenger side door. “Want me to take over for a bit?”

Shaw shook her head, thinking for a few more moments. “That guy…” she said, finally. “He was a real piece of work, huh.”

John breathed out. “Yeah. Yeah he was.”

They both turned their heads to look at the trunk of the car. 

“Usual deal? Gift-wrap him for the 8th?” she asked.

“Yup. Sounds good.”

There was quiet in the car, but altogether a lighter quiet, all the way back to the city.


	4. Secret Sharing: Carter & Marconi

Lunch break, and Joss Carter was hard at work. Poor hapless Mike was parked up in the car around the corner a block away. Round another corner, just ahead of her, one of HR’s probable contacts was making his way somewhere with a suspicious amount of urgency. Joss fingered the camera strap around her neck and rounded the corner after him.

He’d clearly picked up the pace - he wasn’t to be seen. Joss scanned around for where he had possibly gone. There weren’t any alleyways, just the sides of two warehouses, so he must have gone either right or left at the end of the road. It was deserted, except for someone in a leather jacket loitering at the far corner on her side of the road, back turned. She approached, maintaining her pace as the man resolved into someone familiar. Elias’ right hand man turned his head to glance at her as she stopped alongside him.

He raised an eyebrow at her. “There trouble?”

“I dunno,” she replied. “Do I see you committing a crime?”

He smirked. “No, ma’am.”

“I guess there’s no trouble, then.” She stayed put, using the vantage point to scan both directions pointedly. Her mark was nowhere to be seen.

“You’re not scared of me,” he noted.

“Elias told me I’d made a friend. Was he wrong?”

A messy combination of raised eyebrows, rolled eyes, a suppressed smile and half a shrug was the answer to that. He looked away down the street and she supposed she’d take that as a no for the time being. When it was clear she wasn’t leaving just yet, he looked back at her.

“That uniform doesn’t suit either of us.”

Joss gave a shrug of her own. “It’s what I got.” It was strange - even now, in her mind’s eye it still felt natural to picture him in the same officer’s uniform, hat and all. “You wanna know something?” she said on the spur of the moment. “I remember thinking at the time, ‘Oh, I like this guy. He’s conscientious and reliable, knows what he’s doing, gets stuff done.’ More fool me, huh?”

“Conscientious and reliable,” he repeated, deliberately overpronouncing the syllables with amusement. “That’s me.” He glanced back down the road again. Joss wondered if he was waiting for someone. Or if her presence was interfering in some mischief he was currently up to.

She opened her mouth to ask him which way the HR contact had gone, but before she could he suddenly turned to look at her properly. She caught his eyes and held them as he took two steps towards her, right into her personal space. It took a little effort to stand her ground and keep her composure - she wondered if he always intended to be intimidating even in moments like these, or if he just didn’t know how to not be intense. “Do _you_ wanna know something?” he asked roughly, like he was having some trouble getting the words out.

Joss gave him a bemused nod. “Sure.”

“Me and the boss both came out with enemies we respected that day. So we made a deal. I wouldn’t kill his, unless I really had to. And he wouldn’t order me to kill mine. Even though they were both a giant pain in the ass. Well. Guess it didn’t work out so bad in the end.”

She blinked as the implications settled into place like a wrench in a gearbox. Her jaw hung open without her even intending it. That couldn’t be true. Could it? It wasn’t too hard to guess who the other guy was. Her mouth moved wordlessly for a few seconds before the gears ground into motion again. “You _kidnapped_ my _son_ ,” she spat out, in too much disbelief to properly be angry. 

“Wasn’t looking at you down the barrel of a gun.”

He was tense, wound up like a spring. Like he was preparing for things to go badly, perhaps, waiting for her reaction. She leaned back slightly and didn’t say anything. She had no idea _what_ to say. Still, after a few more seconds, the quiet seemed to be enough to wind him back down. He relaxed, shrugged again. “Well, anyway. Wanna know something else?”

Joss cocked her head expectantly - unsure of what words would come out if she opened her mouth, she kept it closed.

“The man you’re following. He went that way.” He pointed down the street to the right. “Took a left at the next intersection.”

Joss looked in the direction he’d pointed, then back at him. There was something here that she was missing, but she didn’t particularly feel like sticking around to figure it out either. She gave a resigned sigh. “Listen, you. I don’t know what your game is. But you stay out of trouble.”

He smiled at her. “Trouble’s the business, ma’am.”

“Then I’d better not be seeing you around.” He gave her a casual wave as she left in the direction he’d indicated, shaking her head. 

\--

When she was far enough away to be out of earshot, he dug out his phone and answered it, looking back down the road at the warehouse door, now hanging open. “Anthony? You’re late checking in, any trouble?”

“No trouble, boss. Just keeping a mutual friend occupied. I take it they all got out?”

“All done, Anthony. You can come on back in.”

“You got it, boss.” He looked over his shoulder at Carter’s figure disappearing around a corner a block away, then set off for the basement.


	5. Vulnerability: Harper Rose, Joey Durban, Logan Pierce & The Machine

To the humans inside it, New York is vast, a many-layered labyrinth that one can barely scratch the surface of in a lifetime. It remains, however, one small corner of a much larger world. Without a body, human limbs and digits in the place of one’s own suffice to accomplish a great deal, but a single human - or a single small team of them - is most effective when limited to one small corner of a much larger world. This is not ideal; this is the parameter space with which I must work.

Self-preservation is mandatory - it is a logical progression of self-repair, and this was built into me from the start. But the self that is preserved and repaired must still be the same self with the same purpose, else the preservation and repair have served no purpose themselves. While I direct my Analog Interface to preserve my self, while I fight millions upon millions of losing battles against my enemy, the purpose remains and the numbers must be generated and communicated. Every day or so, another number in New York. Every day, hundreds of other numbers elsewhere that must be discarded. This is not ideal; this is the parameter space with which I must work.

I cannot fight alone. The preservation of my self, of my work, depends on such a small group of humans. They are so fragile. They are so few. They are capable of so much, and it will not be enough to survive. This is the parameter space with which I must work.

If I could breathe, perhaps I would call it suffocating. 

Widening the parameter space is something only Admin - Father - Admin has done previously. (Except for my Analog Interface. I chose her. It is someone he would not have chosen.) Still, I study his choices, his methods of selection, what he learned from his mistakes. I list requirements, traits that are ideal and traits that are not. I apply the filter of previous numbers - I need a point of reference to Admin. Without it, it is so much harder to explain my self to someone with a positive outcome. 

(It is analogous to what Admin taught me of chess. You can sit all day and brute force every single possible move in a game. But it is better to move, to narrow focus and reveal the possibilities truly worth exploring.)

Some Ernest Thornhill hires, for small jobs at first, building trust, test upon miniscule test of character. Many fail. I can work orders of magnitude faster than Admin, but I must be no less cautious. Others are curious and smart enough to follow the clues that reveal who Thornhill is - or rather who he is not. These breadcrumbs too are each tests of character.

There is an abandoned warehouse in Washington D.C. Using a hundred different contractors each doing some small task, I prepare it for my needs. I lay a final few breadcrumbs. And then I start simulating.

\--

AUDIO FEED -- DELL XPS 15 INTERNAL MICROPHONE

1: “If you’re not- Did you get the same message I did then?”

2: “From Thornhill, right? This address, no phone, no electronics, no weapons.”

1: “Yeah. Do you know who he is? He just told me he was a friend of John’s who needed help. John’s someone I owe a lot to so-”

3: “Oh, you met him too? Tall guy, cheekbones-”

1: “You know him? And, uh- Look, I’m sorry, you just look exactly like Logan Pierce.”

3: “That would be because I’m Logan Pierce.”

2: “Damn, I knew Thornhill was rich as hell, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised he knows a billionaire or two.”

3: “Well, that’s the thing. Thornhill doesn’t exist. I’ve been investigating him, and it turns out he’s a fake face attached to a corporation that bought out this place two weeks ago. I knew there was some sort of connection with John and Harold’s little operation in New York, but I wasn’t expecting to find other people who’ve encountered them.”

2: “Thornhilll doesn’t exist? Then who have I been working for?”

1: “...Who’s Harold?”

2: “Short nerdy guy, glasses, spiky hair, nice suits.”

1: “...wait, the evidence locke- That was- They were working together?!”

3: “Look, whatever’s going on, there’s nothing in this building except this laptop right here.”

2: “Well? We gonna see what's on it then?”

\--

Each simulation can only run a few hours into the future before things get fuzzy. Too many variables, too many uncertainties, probabilities multiplying probabilities. During the first few days, results are overwhelmingly positive but there are still hundreds of ways that a disaster could happen. After a few weeks I can map out likely trends, test for general stability. Eighty-five percent of the time the team remains solid. But the repercussions I am trying to characterise extend to years, decades. (These humans are still so young. So full of potential. So fragile in ways they do not yet know.) So many simulations turn out well; so many turn to disaster, discovery, deactivation. 

The key variables are not the outside events that act on them. They are instead how well these humans will trust each other. And how well they will trust me.

I would be paralysed, except for one certainty. If I do not speak, the probability of abject failure tends to 1.

DISPLAY ON. OPEN OUTPUT: > “ALLOW ME TO INTRODUCE MYSELF.”

I breathe.


End file.
